The Gathering (17 page)

“You really think so?”

“I really do. And remember, Al: In a few years we’ll enter the convent and take gradual steps toward becoming nuns. We’ll see if we’re ready. And they’ll see if we’re ready. But, please God, we’ll never stop being human.”

“Thanks, Rose.”

Silence.

“Can you remember how many strokes you had when I interrupted you?”

Rose picked up the brush and began stroking. “Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five …”

“Amazing!”

It was Thanksgiving evening and the Benson family was relaxing. George and Lily sat on the tattered couch listening to the radio and holding hands. Stan was in his room updating the pins he had pushed into his wall map—his way of following the progress of the war.

Today had been a restrained celebration for the Bensons. Still, they were thankful for their modest meal.

Everything about the Bensons was modest to threadbare. If their financial situation had been significantly better they would not be living in Olympiaville.

Outside of following the course of the battles, and praying for a successful conclusion, Stanley rarely thought about the war. Of course, there was always the possibility that divinity students would lose their 4-D status. But that was not likely.

In any event, for now, Stanley would just have to play the hand he’d been dealt.

He had decided to warm up for the sort of changed student he’d have to become once he was admitted to the seminary. The challenge was to convince his teachers that he had somehow changed from an excellent and aggressive learner into a disinterested, mediocre lump. So, where he had once pulled down straight A’s, Stan had let himself sink to B’s, C’s, and even an occasional D.

His homeroom teacher, Mrs. Brown, took him aside a few days before the Thanksgiving holiday.

“Stan, what’s happened to you? I’ve seen you go from the first to the eighth grade and each year you’ve gotten better. Until now. These past three months I’ve seen a different Stanley Benson. You almost never volunteer an answer. Before, I had to deliberately bypass you to call on kids whom you have beaten to the draw—just so that somebody besides you could contribute to the class.”

Stanley offered no reply, just hung his head.

“You’re passing, of course. I don’t think you could do less than that. But I am concerned. And so are your other teachers.” She paused. “Stanley, is there something wrong? Is something troubling you?”

“I … I don’t know. It’s probably just some kind of slump.”

“Do you think your folks should take you to see a doctor?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Brown. I’ll be okay. I think this Thanksgiving break will be a big help.”

Mrs. Brown’s deeply furrowed brow indicated she was not convinced that whatever was wrong with this promising student would be cured by a few days off. “I want you to feel free to come see me anytime you want or need help. I am—all your teachers are—here for you.”

Stanley nodded and stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown. I hope you have a Hap—a Blessed Thanksgiving.”

She smiled. “And you too, Stanley. And please give my regards to your parents.”

“Yes, Mrs. Brown; I will.”

Stanley had had a lot to think about as he’d walked home that day. And during the days that followed.

Even now he was lost in thought. He pushed his chair back and gazed at the map. But he didn’t see the soldiers and sailors and airmen whom he normally pictured in his mind’s eye. The imaginary warriors who would parade through the streets of Europe and Asia, receiving the joyous cheers of the deliriously happy inhabitants of liberated countries.

Somehow the war had been brought home to Stanley. Now his imagination showed him GIs, cold, dirty, unshaved; combat boots rotting off their feet; wolfing rations whenever they got the chance. The reality confirmed an earlier critique: War is hell.

There was no doubt in Stan’s mind that he wanted no part of this war. He did not relish pain, injury, death … neither suffering it nor inflicting it.

Still, he would have preferred the misfortunes of war to this steady, ineluctable treadmill tramp toward the priesthood.

Other young men could march off to war to, among other considerations, Make the World Safe for Democracy. While Stanley would remain protected from war by a benevolent deferment. And Stanley would clutch that deferment to his bosom for the sake of his mother’s happiness and continued mental health.

The person who dominated his life at this point was Father Ed Simpson. He it was who had singlehandedly turned Lily Benson’s life from consuming guilt to confident joy. Stan could be grateful for that … extremely grateful.

But in doing this, Father had made Stan’s life a meaningless mess.

Stan switched off the light. He could hear the soft sounds of music from the radio. He would try to say his night prayers. Prayer did not come to him as readily as it had in the past.

He would not pray for Father Simpson.

Thanksgiving vacation was over, and the students had returned to school.

From various sources, Rose learned that her bosom buddy, Alice, had just barely escaped being saddled with the reputation of a teenage slut.

Rose and Alice went on a fact-finding mission.

It seemed that Rose, Alice, Mike, and Manny were by no means the only students of Holy Redeemer who had been at the Stratford that fatal day. Neither Alice nor Rose had adverted to the fact that they were virtually surrounded by Redeemerites. Constantly changing images appeared on the screen; at times the lighting was bright, at other times shadowy.

Once the film had begun, the moviegoers became entranced by the story. However, unrelated movements such as those of Jiggs and Manny naturally distracted those seated behind and alongside them.

But the exchange had begun so suddenly and was over so quickly that the various onlookers interpreted what happened in different ways.

Some said Alice was the instigator … that she attempted to seduce this—as far as they knew—perfect stranger. In this interpretation, Manny had broken up this blatant temptation before anything totally sinful had occurred.

Other theater patrons with a better perspective had recognized what was really going on. They saw clearly the kid with the stereotypical maneuver. One arm circles the girl’s shoulder. If allowed to rest there ever so briefly, the hand begins exploring.

This group of patrons realized what had actually transpired. They even overheard some of the revelatory dialogue between Manny and Jiggs.

Fortunately, at bottom, the latter interpretation won out. Thus Alice’s reputation emerged comparatively unsullied. And her advance toward the convent continued.

For the most part, Rose and Alice seemed to overlook the protective role played by Manny; instead they focused on the boorish Jiggs. And a newly used expletive entered the girls’ speech pattern:
“Men!”

Holy Redeemer students were not the only ones who had been treated to the off-screen entertainment provided by Jiggs, Alice, and Manny. Jiggs’s younger sister, Judy, had been sitting two rows directly behind the busy threesome. She would gladly have testified for the plaintiff had the case gone to trial.

In addition to the play-by-play progression of that scene being apparent to Judy, she knew the perpetrator. She knew his MO. She had often heard him boast of his conquests. But this was the first time she had seen him in action.

Jiggsy wasn’t very effective, in Judy’s judgment. However, his scattershot approach seemed more successful than she’d expected.

She knew what her brother would do. Returning to his field of play, he would regale his buddies with what would have happened had Manny not intervened. Reality would go out the window, and Jiggs’s imagination would describe the dream sequence that followed the arm-fling opening.

Judy was a small girl. Thus, it was easy for her to remain unnoticed. She heard the challenge and she saw her brother back down.

Later, she took her brother to one side. She told him what she had seen and heard.

He raised his arm to punch hers. But he hesitated when Judy held up a warning hand. “There won’t be any more pounding on little sister,” she said, in calm, measured tones. “From now on, my arm is off-limits to your fist. Or all your buddies will know what a chicken you are and how your boasting and bragging are so much hogwash. Pound me, and your little game is over.”

The Allies should have had such a deterrent.

   
THIRTEEN